If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime
by mahc
Summary: EPILOGUE POSTED He stared after her a moment, confused. It almost sounded as if she wanted to be molested. But surely that didn’t make sense –
1. If A Tree Falls Before Bedtime

This is just for fun, a MM for "Quiet Day in Dodge," from Sam's POV. It's a stand-alone story with no deep message or character study (except for a bit of introspection on the events of "Hostage!").

**If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime**

A Gunsmoke Story

By MAHC (Amanda)

POV: Sam Noonan

Spoilers: "Hostage!;" "Quiet Day in Dodge;"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters.

Sam Noonan smiled as he watched the beer drip from the sodden heads of Dobie Crimps and Buck Doolin. Kitty's dousing had abruptly subdued the two old timers, who, nevertheless, seemed to be taking it in stride. Funny as it was, though, her reaction triggered alarms in the bartender's mind, and his smile faded. She usually tolerated that kind of behavior – and worse – from her customers. But as soon as she had stomped down the stairs to quiet things down, the bartender noticed a distinct edge to her body language. His smile disappeared completely when she stepped to the doors of the saloon and he realized she intended to go out into the evening alone.

"Miss Kitty?" he asked carefully, uneasy about her leaving, but just as unsure about stopping her.

She stopped, hands on the doors. "What?"

"Where you goin'?"

"Why?" she retorted, her usual soft deference turning hard.

He flinched. Surely she knew what could happen. Despite the order Matt Dillon had brought to it, Dodge City remained a rough town, especially late at night. Even worse, they were still living with the ugly memory of Jude Bonner – not only the marshal and Miss Kitty, but every person who had been present that horrible day.

Hesitant to bring up the obvious, and certainly painful, reminder of that all-too-recent trauma, he hedged, "Well, it's getting late. You could be – molested."

But instead of the expected shadow passing across her smooth features, Kitty's brow rose, and she laughed, sarcasm sharp in her voice. "Really?" she cracked, then, with a slap, pushed through the Long Branch swinging doors and into the Dodge night.

He stared after her a moment, confused. It almost sounded as if she _wanted_ to be molested. But surely that didn't make sense –

He stopped, the suspicion of comprehension derailing his train of thought, and he let his eyes track to the upstairs hallway. It had not been more than an hour before that she and Marshal Dillon had stolen away for a private dinner. Sam had been in her employ long enough not to expect either of them again until morning. Her exit – alone – had taken him by surprise. Perhaps the marshal had already left, slipping unobtrusively down the back stairs, called away to tend to the ubiquitous duties of his officer. It had happened before, and would certainly account for her frustration.

It was, of course, no secret in Dodge that Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell were a couple. In fact, even the "respectable" citizens of the town seemed to accept them almost as easily as they accepted men and women who had officially stood before a preacher. Maybe they realized that the marshal and his woman had a bond as strong as – or stronger than – most married people.

Nevertheless, the two generally maintained an emotional distance in public, only rarely emerging from behind the mask of friendship. But Sam, in his capacity as right hand man to the most successful woman in town, had – voluntarily and sometimes involuntarily – been granted glimpses into what hinted at much deeper and more passionate intimacies.

He had seen the subtle touches, the casual caresses, had heard the teasing flirtations, the quiet entreaties. Not that those moments were exclusively his. He bet Doc and Festus, and perhaps even Newly and Burke, had witnessed similar interactions. But Sam knew other things, as well.

He knew the marshal had a key to the Long Branch and the upstairs apartments that Kitty occupied. He knew the big lawman usually made his way up those stairs to spend at least part of the night four or five times a week unless he was out of town. He knew on the mornings after those nights, Kitty generally slept a little later and woke a lot happier than on other mornings. And he knew that sometimes, when they thought they were alone, they stopped on the stairs, him on the top step and her on the landing so that she didn't have to reach up so far to kiss him. Sam had witnessed those moments on more than one occasion, always politely backing out of sight until he heard their footsteps continue on to her room.

His eyes moved back to the saloon doors, still swinging rhythmically from their rough push. Crimps and Doolin were busy shaking like shaggy dogs to rid themselves of the excess ale that the frustrated saloon owner had emptied over them. When they looked at him, askance, he could only offer a shrug and toss them a bar towel to share.

"Why don't you fellas call it a night?" he suggested, his eyes sending the message to the saloon girl who was with them that her evening was over, too.

The two plunked down a few dollars to cover the battered chairs and shuffled out together.

"Is Miss Kitty all right?" Sadie asked, genuine concern in her voice. Kitty treated her girls well, and they liked her.

Sam shrugged, having no intention of discussing Miss Kitty's emotional state with the young lady. "I'm sure she's fine."

Her eyes glanced upward toward the private rooms. "Did something happen? I thought that she and the marshal – "

"That's not our affair," he told her, not even stumbling at his turn of phrase. With a tilt of his chin, he gently dismissed her.

"Good night, Sam," she returned, taking the hint with enough grace to keep the moment from becoming too awkward. Throwing a cloak over her bare shoulders, she stepped out onto the boardwalk.

The bartender stood quietly for a moment, listening, not sure what he thought he would hear. The marshal's distinctive footsteps on the planks, perhaps. His stride was easy to recognize: firm and sure, but just a bit uneven. The limp that had been imperceptible when he was younger had claimed a more pronounced hold on his gait in recent years, and he had given up trying to hide it. Sam wondered if even Doc knew just how many times Dillon had been wounded in the course of his service to the law. He bet Kitty knew. He had watched her eyes follow her man as he left the Long Branch, had seen the empathy on her face when he grimaced or winced over stiff muscles. He bet she knew every mark on the marshal's body, felt each pain as if it were her own. But even though she fretted over his injuries, Dillon seemed to take them in stride, just part of the job. His own health meant far less to him than the health and safety of his town – or of his woman.

Of course, if anyone could take care of herself it was Kitty Russell. She had proven that on many, many occasions. Still, Sam knew the marshal considered her protection a priority, and the bartender willingly accepted his own role as surrogate guardian in Dillon's absence.

Perhaps that was what had hurt the most when Jude Bonner took her. He had been unable to fulfill his promise to the marshal, unable to protect her. In fact, just the opposite had happened – she had protected him and the others by sacrificing herself.

It had been one of those rare occasions when Kitty had publicly acknowledged her relationship with Matt Dillon. Upon Bonner's threat to kill Sam and the others if they didn't produce the marshal's woman, she had not hesitated to step forward and boldly proclaim, "I'm the lady." Just thinking about that time gnawed at Sam's gut, pushed the nausea into his throat.

The vision of them parading her into town, battered and abused, then brutally shooting her down right there in front of everyone still haunted him. But maybe just as hard to witness was the look on Matt Dillon's face when he flung open the door of Doc's office and saw her lying on the table. It stunned them all to see the usually unflappable marshal visibly shaken as he stopped near the examining table, speaking to Doc in a voice broken and strained. Sam and the others had courteously stepped out the door, but not before they watched the strong, tall man sink to his knees beside to her.

She had survived, thank God. Somehow, she had found the strength to keep going, to gain the victory over those who had sought to destroy her. And somehow, the marshal had managed not to kill Jude Bonner, although it was a near thing. When the posse had come upon him, Sam was almost certain Dillon was going to smash in the dog soldier's worthless skull. And he had no doubt that, to the man, not one member of their group would have uttered a word about it.

But the ultimate good in the marshal overrode his fury. Somehow, he was stronger than the moment. Sam had always admired Matt Dillon, but after that, he felt something akin to awe, a feeling that gave him perhaps some minor insight into the complex private man only Kitty Russell was allowed to see. It was that awe that had inspired a loyalty to the marshal almost as strong as the loyalty to Miss Kitty.

And it was that loyalty that drew the bartender up the stairs after Crimps and Dooley had finally stumbled out of the saloon. Of course, the marshal could very well have gone down the back stairs, but if he hadn't, Sam wondered why Miss Kitty had left so suddenly. As he reached the landing, he thought back over the scene. Whatever had happened, she had been mad – furious, even. If the marshal was still upstairs, Sam figured he could probably use a beer, or maybe a shot of strong whiskey.

Not sure if he really wanted anyone to answer, he let his knuckles rap lightly on the wood, almost relieved that there was no sound beyond it. After a couple of beats, he tried again, a bit more forcefully. No response. Halfway berating himself for continuing, he twisted the knob and eased open the door. The lamps still glowed softly. The fragrant odor of their shared meal still lingered in the air. The smoke of fine brandy wafted across the threshold. A special evening, then, he thought, as if he hadn't already figured that by the almost girlish anticipation Kitty had shown that afternoon. He wondered what on earth Dillon had done to ruin her mood.

As he allowed one foot to step inside, his eyes scanned from the fireplace to the elegant table. No marshal. Okay. That was that. One more quick check and he would leave. It really wasn't his business anyway. Braving three more steps, he had almost convinced himself to head back out when he heard the rhythm of soft, even snores coming from the bed.

Another four steps brought him around to see the long, solid body of Marshal Matt Dillon sprawled diagonally on Kitty's fancy quilt, arms and legs flung out in total occupation of the mattress, looking rather like a chopped redwood that lay in the very configuration in which it had crashed to the forest floor. Considering that this tree still wore boots and vest, Sam figured that the "crash" had not been part of the plan – not at all.

The evening's scenario became painfully clear. With an amused grimace, the bartender understood what had infuriated Miss Kitty, but he sympathized, nevertheless, with the exhausted marshal, and didn't envy him the discussion they would most certainly have in the morning.

Dillon looked so peaceful lying there, almost like a little boy – well, big boy – who had played too hard all day and succumbed to the sweet respite of sleep, so unlike the superhuman figure he had to maintain everyday: the strong, giant lawman that no sane person dared cross, the keeper of order, the guardian of their safety. These were heavy burdens, ones that most certainly had to wear on a man. Sam decided he didn't begrudge the marshal his rest, and figured even Miss Kitty would understand – eventually.

With a fond smile, he contributed his bit to making the man comfortable, grabbing the heel of one large boot and tugging until it pulled free. Dillon did not budge. The next boot protested a bit more, but eventually relinquished its grip and dropped to the floor, as well. The vest would just have to stay on. There was no way Sam was going to haul the big man up in his arms and divest him of that garment. Besides, it certainly didn't look as if it was keeping him from his rest.

Duty done, he turned to ease out of the room and leave the marshal to his sleep.

"Kitty – "

The low voice stopped him just a few feet away from the bed, and his eyes widened at the softness of the tone. No, not softness – _seductiveness_. He had never heard that timbre in Matt Dillon's voice; probably no one else in Dodge had – except Kitty. Braving a wary glance back, he saw, to his relief, that the marshal's eyes remained closed, a slight smile curving his lips.

Sam took a few more quiet steps toward the door and had almost made it when the voice groaned again, the color warm and suggestive.

"Mmm – Kitty, that feels good – "

Swallowing, Sam flushed and stared at the marshal, who still slumbered peacefully across the bed. He didn't have to work too hard to imagine what thoughts floated through Dillon's brain. The possibility of where the dream could lead was enough to propel him hastily toward the door before he heard or saw anything that was absolutely none of his business. A deep, pleasured moan followed him into the hallway, ending only when he quickly, but quietly, clicked the door closed behind him.

It was not as if he didn't know what went on in Kitty's room between the marshal and her. He would have to have been blind – and deaf – not to comprehend a long time ago. But hearing such intimacy in that deep voice brought images to his mind, images that he definitely shouldn't be having.

Nevertheless, he hung onto them a breath or two before guiltily casting them out.

"Sam?"

Jerking up his head, he froze at the sight of Kitty Russell ascending the stairs, her face settled now into softer angles, her shoulders relaxed. She had obviously not been molested on her walk.

"M – Miss Kitty," he stammered.

Her expression wavered between a smirk and a frown, her eyes flashed past him to the closed door. "Everything okay?"

"Fine, Miss Kitty," he assured her, trying hard not to flush. "I was just – ah – checking doors before I locked up – "

"Checking doors?" she asked, voice skeptical.

"Yes ma'am."

"_Upstairs_ doors?"

He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded, the thought of a smile touching her lips. "And everything's secure?"

"Yes, ma'am."

After another beat, she pursed her lips and sighed. "Okay."

"Good night, Miss Kitty," he offered, relieved.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Good night, Sam."

He was almost at the landing, home free, off the hook. But something stopped him, and he turned. "Miss Kitty?"

She looked back expectantly, and he faltered, suddenly regretting his impulse. But it was too late. Screwing up his courage, he said softly, "He's been awake for three days straight."

The brow came down, the body stiffened, but she didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her snapping eyes told him enough.

Uh oh. Bad impulse. Still, he had committed himself, so he plunged ahead before he lost the courage. "It's awful hard to fight three days worth of lost sleep." Then, holding her gaze steadily, he added, "Even if you have a very good reason to try."

Kitty narrowed her eyes at him for a long moment. Finally, her stance relaxed, and she almost smiled. "He could barely keep his eyes open during dinner."

_And _didn't_ keep his eyes open _after_ dinner_, Sam surmised silently. Seeing the real disappointment on her face, he felt led to make an observation. "You know, I've noticed the marshal doesn't usually need much sleep. When I've gone out on posse with him, I've seen him catch a couple of hours on the trail and then be up and ready to go." It was as pointed as he would get, and even that much drew the red to his cheeks.

Kitty stared at him, mouth open, eyebrow rising. "Really?" she asked, but her tone told him she didn't need an answer.

"Really," he confirmed anyway, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. With a duck of his head, he decided it was time to go. "Well, good night, Miss Kitty. Sleep well."

She laughed a bit ruefully and murmured, "I'm sure I will," before she slipped into her room.

But Sam wasn't so sure. What he'd told her about Dillon was true. Thinking again about the smile on the big lawman's face as he dreamed, he looked back fondly toward the closed door.

There might just be a little molesting going on tonight, after all. If the marshal knew what was good for him.

**END**


	2. Can You Still Make It Into a Chiffonier?

Here is the long-ago promised epilogue. I had a heck of a time settling on what I would do, but decided that I'd keep it in Sam's POV, and it turned out to be longer than the story itself, so maybe it's just part two instead of an epilogue. It's still not too deep, but hopefully enjoyable.

**If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda

**Epilogue: Can You Still Make It Into a Chiffonier?**

POV: Sam

Spoilers: "A Quiet Day in Dodge"

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation.

As he surveyed the empty saloon, it occurred to Sam that the Long Branch was a bit like a woman: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next. In the quiet of the morning, he almost had trouble picturing the rowdy crowd that would transform the room only a few hours later. Although he liked the early hours, they weren't what had interested him in the business of tending bar. He supposed it was people – the chance to meet all representations of his fellow man, good and bad, loud and quiet, happy and sad, responsible and irresponsible. Sam was an observer. He observed them all.

The clink of a glass made him grimace, and he shot a look toward the stairs, hoping he hadn't been too loud. More than once that morning, he had found his gaze wandering up the stairs. He'd heard no sounds from Kitty's quarters since he arrived and smiled at the thought of the two getting their deserved rest – or not.

A noise drew his attention back past the outside doors. The town was waking. The clopping of horses, the jingling of wagons, the muffled voices of merchants and customers vied for dominance in the streets. Boots thumped down the boardwalk outside the doors, heavy and light, even and uneven. The sounds of another day in Dodge City.

Through those familiar noises, though, one in particular caught the bartender's notice and pulled a quick frown to his face. It had encroached on his thoughts, faint at first, then growing louder as it drew nearer to him. With a keen stab of disappointment, he realized he heard the unmistakable footsteps of Matt Dillon on the wooden planks. It was his usual stride, long but unhurried, the sound of a dutiful marshal making his morning rounds.

Sam's gaze flashed back up the stairs, then swung back to the outside doors. He was not a man usually prone to profanity, but the implication of the marshal being out and about already brought a curse to his lips. "Damn," he muttered.

He must have left early, which meant no deserved rest and probably nothing else that would resolve the tension between the two people he cared most about in Dodge. With a touch of guilt, he found himself irritated at Matt Dillon, despite his own defense of the exhausted lawman the night before. If he had been in the marshal's place –

He stopped himself, embarrassed at the vision that popped into his mind. Besides, it wasn't any of his business. And maybe he was wrong. Maybe the footsteps didn't belong to –

But at that moment, the familiar tall, broad frame passed by the Long Branch doors without even a hesitation and continued on down the street. Shaking his head, the bartender wiped at the counter and began the task of bracing himself for Kitty's mood when she came downstairs. It would be a long day, he figured.

**XXXX**

It was nearly an hour later when she emerged. He watched her descend the stairs, wincing in anticipation of her attitude. Not that she would take it out on him. She was always kind and tactful. Sometimes, though, if her temper was riled, she didn't bother too much with diplomacy.

"Good morning, Sam," she greeted casually, carefully, her face composed and unreadable.

"Good morning, Miss Kitty," he returned, unable to keep his eyes from cutting up toward the balcony. Bravely – or maybe foolishly – he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

But if he had expected any revelation from her response, he was disappointed. "Fine," she answered vaguely, and after a polite, unrevealing smile, stepped toward the office. "I'm going to work on the books for a while, Sam. I'd rather not be disturbed."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, heart heavy for her. "Uh, Bill Caldwell came by this morning and brought you that last order from Kansas City," he said, both for information and to give her something innocuous and commonplace to divert her attention.

She stopped and looked back, expression mild, business-like. "Could you check it against the inventory? Last time he forgot the brandy."

"Yes, ma'am," he assured her before she nodded and closed the door behind her.

So that's how it was. He reminded himself again that it wasn't his business, but he couldn't help but wonder a bit at the marshal's sanity.

Of course, he couldn't do anything about that. Still, even if he couldn't magically make her dreams turn out the way she wanted them to, he could do his job and keep her from worrying about work. So he headed down into the cellar to count cases from the drummer's latest delivery. Bill Caldwell had been a good supplier for the past three years, but recently he had acquired several new – and rather large – accounts, and they had noticed a slight reduction in the quality of service. Kitty was right to second guess the count.

Picking up the ledger and a pencil, he began with the first case, marking off the order as he accounted for them. He couldn't help but hear Kitty's soft footsteps echo on the flooring above him and just to the left. She moved across the office, stopped for a moment, then moved again. It gave him comfort to be able to know where she was without crowding her over-protectively. Since Bonner, he'd had to fight the impulse not to hover over her.

He had just reached for a case of whiskey when he heard a second set of footsteps join Kitty's. He froze for a moment, poised to pound up the stairs to help in case she needed it, but only the low sound of muffled voices followed. The visitor was male, his deeper register easy to distinguish from hers, but they weren't talking loudly enough for him to make out an identity. Still, he didn't really worry. Kitty was a busy businesswoman.

When he didn't hear anything else from above, he returned to his inventory. Finally, satisfied that Caldwell had not shorted them, he began climbing the cellar steps to finish preparing the saloon for business.

The unexpected crash from above jerked his head up in alarm. "No!" he vowed through gritted teeth. It was not going to happen again. Not again. He would not allow it.

Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the top in time to hear an agonized cry from behind the door: Kitty's cry. Kitty's door. It took only another five seconds to wrench the shotgun from its perch behind the bar. He heard a rough scrape on the floor, wood on wood, as if someone had moved a chair or a desk. Sam hadn't attempted to break down a door in years, but the motion came automatically. Bracing his left leg, he lifted his right one, prepared to kick down the barrier, prepared to protect her whatever the cost, prepared to –

Another cry cracked through the door, but this time he could hear the thick emotion behind it; emotion thick not with distress – he realized suddenly – but with desire.

"Oh, Matt – "

In mid-kick, he froze, eyes wide; then, off balance, fell back against the hallway wall.

Matt? Matt.

He heaved a breath, impossibly grateful that she had chosen that moment to – well, that she had chosen that moment. If he had managed to break open the door, if he had burst in on them –

His heart pounded, his mouth went dry. Forget the embarrassment he would have caused; much more sobering was the realization that, had he followed through, he would most certainly have ended up sprawled on the floor, plugged dead-center with Matt Dillon's bullet before the door had shuddered completely open. The awareness drove the strength right out of his legs, and he slid down the wall, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain control over the shocked muscles.

In the moment of quiet, he became aware of the result of his not breaking in on them: uninterrupted, the occupants continued their activities, blissfully unaware of the near disaster. Deep groans mingled with soft cries. Sam closed his eyes and tried to remove himself from the moment, but only succeeded in creating a very vivid picture of what was most certainly happening in that office. When his legs recovered enough to support his weight again, Sam stumbled back to the bar, replacing the gun and moving as close to the outside entrance as he could.

Humming to distract himself from the occasional moan that made it through the wood, he had just finished checking the beer supply when another sound brought his attention back to the doors. Matt Dillon's walk wasn't the only distinctive one in Dodge. The familiar clanging of spurs was enough to alert anyone to the imminent arrival of Festus Haggen. Sam looked up as the trail-weary deputy pushed into the saloon.

"Morning, Festus," he greeted rather loudly, forcing himself not to look toward the office door. "You just get back?"

"Yep," Festus answered, as he jingled up to the bar. "I'm a tellin' ya it's a fur piece longer ta Hayes than ya think. Newly n' me jest now rode in and I'm a lookin' fer Matthew. Hev you eyeballed him ennytime today?"

Matthew? Matthew who?

He concentrated on wiping an area of the bar that was already spotless. "He walked by here a little while ago, Festus. Morning rounds, looked like." He told himself that was the truth, and that he shouldn't feel guilty for only providing part of it.

"Wael, I hope he got hisself some sleep," the deputy said, cocking his head. "I knowed he wuz pure tuckered out yesterdee when Newly an' me took at' thar prisoner to Hayes fer him. I figgered I'd find him flat out on his bunk in th' jailhouse."

"You didn't," Sam guessed easily.

"Don't look like his bunk wuz mussed a bit." The other man shook his head and pushed his tattered hat back, exposing a ragged thatch of dark hair. "Miz Kitty around?"

Kitty? Kitty who?

"Uh, well, she's, uh, she's in the office," Sam supplied, then hastily added, "working."

"I orda say good mornin' to her – " he decided, stepping down the bar.

"No!"

Festus turned, frowning. "What's wrong with ya, Sam? I jest wanna say hello."

He scratched for a coherent answer. "She's – she made me promise not to disturb her. She's, uh, she's behind on the books." The deputy should have recognized that as a flat-out lie. Kitty Russell was _never_ behind on the books.

Fortunately, Festus seemed oblivious to his panic and just scratched absently at his beard. "Oh, well, mebbe I'll jest go on down ta the jailhouse an' catch a hour or two of sleep."

"Why don't you do that?" Sam agreed, trying to not sound too eager for him to be on his way.

"Hate ta do it, though, 'till I find Matthew – "

He was headed toward the doors, but another scuff from Kitty's office stopped him. Sam flinched, eyes widening at the sound, all too similar to the scrape he had heard as he prepared to break down the door. Only this time, it continued in a consistent, rather rhythmic pattern. With a soft gasp, he realized it was the office desk.

Festus squinted toward the door. "What in tarnation is that?"

"What is what?" Sam asked, then winced at the feeble attempt.

"That thar scrapin' noise."

The desk jerked again, a hard, quick sound, followed by a grunt. Sam scrambled for an explanation. "Uh – I think Miss Kitty's moving some furniture around."

The deputy nodded. "Mebbe we orta hep her," he pondered. "Sounds like she's havin' a hard time."

The bartender pursed his lips. That was most likely exactly what was happening. "You look right thirsty, Festus," he said quickly. "Been riding all night. You could use a drink, I'll bet."

The deputy hesitated. "Well – "

"Miss Kitty won't do anything foolish." Then again, maybe she already had. "We'll both help her in a minute."

"I _am _a bit parched – " the deputy agreed.

For once grateful that Festus wanted to mooch a drink, Sam heartily concurred. "Sure you are. Let me get you a beer."

"Well, now I'm much obliged, Sam."

"It is much too early in the day to imbibe!"

They both turned, faces shocked at the sight of Edsel Pry peering sourly at them from just over the top of the swinging doors. The pious old woman, who had given the marshal such misery the day before, had never darkened the door of the Long Branch, as far as Sam knew, and he couldn't imagine what would prompt her to do so now.

"Ma'am," he greeted politely, exchanging bemused glances with Festus. "How are you this morning?" he asked pleasantly, ignoring her warning of temperance.

"Considering I was accosted and almost suffocated just twenty-four hours ago – " she began as she stepped gingerly inside.

The desk grated another a few inches across the floor in the office. Sam plunked down a whiskey glass to cover the noise. "Yes, ma'am."

"I am attempting to ascertain the whereabouts of Marshal Dillon," she announced primly.

Festus' brow rose.

"He walked by here a while ago," Sam told her quickly. "I haven't seen him since." Heard him maybe, but not seen.

"I wanted to inform him that I am about to send that telegram to my good friend the Attorney General and would like to afford him an opportunity to make amends before that occurred."

"He'll be plum tickled ta hear that." Sarcasm sharpened Festus' tone.

"Mister Haggen, I do not believe that I was addressing you – "

With a muted crash, something fell in the office.

"What was that?" Ms. Pry asked, eyes narrowing.

Sam opened his mouth to give her the same line he gave Festus, but the deputy beat him to it. "Oh, Miz Kitty's movin' some furniture," he explained easily, drawing a long sip on his beer.

"By herself?"

"Well, yeah." Then he seemed to become aware of her glare and added, "But I'm a gonna hep her terrekly. Jest as soon as I git my muscles liquefied back up."

There were several scrapes in a row, followed by another cry from Kitty. Festus thunked down his drink and headed toward the office.

"Festus!" Sam called.

"Didn't ya hear that, Sam? Miz Kitty's havin' trouble. She might need our hep."

"I don't think she needs our help, Festus," Sam assured him.

"How d'ya know? That thar furniture coulda fell on her an' busted – "

"I think everything's fine. Maybe we could just knock – "

Aghast, Festus scolded, "Sam, where's yer chiverry? Ifn a lady's in need ah hep, it's a feller's duty ta be seein' to her, dontcha know."

"Well, yeah," Sam agreed, "but I don't think Miss Kitty really wants – "

Thankfully, before he was forced into blocking the door, it opened, and Kitty Russell stepped out into the main room. She stopped short, her eyes widening at the sight of the three people staring back at her, but she recovered almost immediately and smiled. Despite her calm, it was not difficult to notice that her face was flushed, her hair a bit scattered. Sam thought he saw the reddish tint of whisker burn on her neck.

"Miz Kitty, you arright?" Festus asked, frowning.

"Why, sure, Festus," she answered easily, tucking back a strand of hair. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His spurs jingled loudly as he crossed the floor. "Well, Sam here said – "

But before he could finish, the door opened wider and the familiar broad shoulders of Matt Dillon emerged. Sam studied him a moment. He held his hat in his hand, which allowed his thick hair, way past due for a trim, to spill over his forehead in a tangle of waves. He had managed to tuck most of his shirt back into his trousers, but Kitty seemed to have missed a couple of buttons, and the bartender tried not to stare at the smear of lip rouge visible on his exposed chest. He wondered if the other two noticed.

"Matthew!" Festus exclaimed, then turned to Sam. "Why didn't ya tell me Matthew wuz a hepin' Miz Kitty move that furniture?"

Dillon's eyes narrowed, darting between Sam and his deputy. "Furniture?" he asked, voice shaded with suspicion.

"I wuz headed in ta hep," Festus explained, waving his hand vaguely, "but Sam here saw how parched I wuz after my ride and all but set on me ta have a drink first. If I'd a knowd you wuz hepin' her, I wouldna worried sa much."

"Furniture?" the marshal repeated.

Clearing his throat pointedly, Sam interjected, "Uh – yes, sir. That – uh – that desk you were helping Miss Kitty move. It was – uh – kinda loud."

His eyes caught Kitty's, and he marveled at her poker face. She returned his gaze blandly. The marshal, however –

There was no arguing that Matt Dillon was a cool character – everyone in the state of Kansas recognized that. Sam had watched him wade into brawls and efficiently dispatch the drunken participants without hesitation. He had seen him, outnumbered six to one, face down infamous gunmen on Front Street without so much as a flinch. He had heard tales of exploits of unrivaled courage and strength and sheer will from all over the territory.

But now Sam watched that coolness melt with the flame of realization. The heat that swept across the strong features turned the marshal's cheeks crimson before rushing down his chest. Sam couldn't resist a wink, and fought not to laugh when Dillon dropped his Stetson.

"Marshal?" Mrs. Pry observed, her face screwing up as she peered at him more closely, "you look flushed. I told you yesterday you needed to take better care of yourself."

"Ya do look a mite feverish," Festus noted, eying the marshal as he picked up the hat. "If'n yer sick, ya orda not be movin' furniture around. That kin take a heap outta a man. Sounded like you n' Miz Kitty wuz havin' a hard time. Ya shoulda called me."

Dillon merely stared at him.

Gliding closer to the nonplussed man, Kitty assured Festus, "Oh, Matt moved things around just fine all by himself." Somehow she kept her face perfectly straight.

"We wuz worried," Festus told her in complete seriousness. "Sounded mighty like you needed hep."

It took all the control Sam possessed not to choke right here.

Dillon cleared his throat, regaining at least a semblance of his usual control. "Kitty helped," he said, face innocent. "She helped – a lot."

Kitty grinned. "I _did_, didn't I?"

"Marshal," Mrs. Pry interrupted, oblivious to the underlying exchange, "if you spent as much time catching criminals as you did moving furniture, maybe the decent citizens of Dodge wouldn't have to put up with such shinnanigans as I did yesterday."

Apparently overcoming his embarrassment, Dillon drew a breath to respond. "Mrs. Pry," he began, but Kitty flowed in between them and interrupted.

"The marshal was just helping me this morning, Mrs. Pry," she said sweetly. "Like Sam said, I needed a desk moved."

"And the marshal is good at moving furniture?" Mrs. Pry wanted to know.

Her smile widening, Kitty said, "Oh, he's _very_ good."

Dillon's gaze caught Kitty's, and Sam was surprised they didn't all just burst into flames from the heat that threatened to combust between the two.

Mrs. Pry seemed to be reconsidering her priorities. "I have a chiffonier that needs moving," she announced.

The marshal's head jerked up, and Sam had to turn away at the look of sheer horror that flashed across his face.

"You do?" Kitty asked, her lips pressed together hard.

"I suppose I could reconsider my complaint to the Attorney General," Mrs. Pry decided. "That is if you can spare an afternoon to rearrange some furniture for me."

Dillon paled, looking as if he might be sick. "Not if you were the last woman on earth," he muttered.

"What was that, Marshal?" Mrs. Pry asked.

Kitty jumped in. "Uh – he's promised to move some more of my furniture later today. But I'll talk to him about it."

The older lady frowned. "Well, just so you know that I still have that telegram to – "

"Your friend the attorney general," the marshal finished for her.

Seeing the need for a little diversion, Sam said, "How about a little brandy to settle your nerves, Mrs. Pry?"

She opened her mouth in indignation. "I wouldn't dream of – " Then Sam set the bottle of amber liquid on the counter, and she cleared her throat. "Well, maybe just one, for medicinal purposes you understand. Since I survived such an ordeal yesterday."

"For medicinal purposes," Kitty agreed amicably.

The all watched as she downed the drink in one gulp, nodded curtly, and stalked out of the bar.

Clicking his tongue, Festus declared, "Ah guarantee that woman is as ornery – "

"Uh, Festus," Kitty cut in.

"Yes'm?"

"You must be exhausted, riding all that way to Hayes and back."

The deputy tilted his head. "I am right tuckered."

The saloon owner patted his arm. "Why don't you go on and get some sleep. I'm sure Matt will take care of things here."

"I wuz thinkin' on it." He turned to the marshal. "At arright with you, Matthew?"

"Oh fine, fine," Dillon agreed quickly.

"Well, I'll be to the jailhouse if'n ya need me."

After the jingling of spurs had died down, and only the three of them remained, Kitty placed a hand on the marshal's shoulder and offered in a warm, husky voice, "How 'bout a drink, Cowboy?" Sam thought how magnificent it would be for a man to hear that tone directed at him.

With a sigh, Dillon settled his hat on his head and tugged it over his eyes, avoiding the barkeeper's gaze. "I'd – uh – I'd better check on things since Festus is taking a siesta."

She didn't seem too disappointed, but let her hand close on his shirt for a moment. "Remember that promise," she reminded. "I have a few things upstairs that need – rearranging."

The marshal reddened and grinned at the same time.

"'Course, if you'd rather help Mrs. Pry – "

The grin collapsed into a grimace. "Kitty, I swear that's not even halfway funny." With a grunt, he headed to the swinging doors, but paused just before he pushed through them. "You'll have that furniture ready to move?" he asked, blue eyes teasing.

"Oh, yeah," she assured him, a twinkle in her own eyes.

Sam watched him leave and listened to the solid footsteps until they faded. Seeing that Kitty still gazed at the spot the marshal had just left, he gathered up whiskey glasses to wipe out.

Finally, she sighed and turned, regarding him warmly. "Thank you, Sam."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he shrugged.

"Sam – "

"Caldwell sent the brandy." It wasn't that he didn't want her to talk about it, but he figured there was no need. They had conveyed all they needed to know already.

She paused, smiling. "Okay. But thank you, anyway." With much more energy than she had the previous night, she sprang up the stairs, but stopped three from the top and turned back to the barkeeper. "You were right, by the way."

He looked up. "Right?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"The marshal _doesn't_ need much sleep."

Sam stared at her a moment, then swallowed, his face heating.

Her smile softened and grew private, intimate. "Not much at all," she whispered, almost to herself, as she continued up the stairs and into her room.

The bartender let his own smile tug at his lips, and listened as the marshal's footsteps sounded again on the boardwalk, denoting his path back toward the jail. In a few hours, the world would be alive with dancing and singing and gambling and fighting, the sounds of another night in Dodge City.

As he looked around the empty room again, he remembered his earlier comparison of the Long Branch to a woman. It seemed even more relevant now: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next.

And he wouldn't change a thing. He didn't figure Matt Dillon would either. Whistling, he picked up another glass to polish.


End file.
